


Bruised Down Below

by orite (geographic)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geographic/pseuds/orite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam attracts unwanted attention at a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruised Down Below

**Author's Note:**

> Let me preface this by saying that in this fic it's canon that lucifer raped Sam in hell. Now we can go on.

The bar's not unlike any other they've been to, even if it's a little rougher around the edges. The heaviness of the smoky air finds its way into Sam's lungs, sits there disgusting and thick. He gives a quiet cough, and Dean slaps him on the back, says he'll get the first round.  
  
He nods, aims for the booths lining the wall that are situated in the darker part of the bar. The less attention they receive, the better, and he's even less of a fan of people staring at him now than he was before Hell. A few of the patrons eye him up as he passes; the guys calculating if they could take him in a fight, taking into account his height and size. He spares a few of them a glance, aiming for somewhere between 'I don't want trouble' and 'don't fuck with me'. A few of them stare back, almost challenging, whilst others look away. The women give him curious once overs, suggestive smirks half hidden behind their drinks. He tries to ignore it the best that he can, hunches his shoulders and tries to fold into himself as much as possible. He doesn't pause to apologize when he accidentally brushes up against someone, feeling uneasy and flinching at the unwanted contact. He just finds the nearest empty booth and settles into it, opens up the newspaper and starts reading.  
  
He learnt from an early age how to block out noise. Whether it was studying for school whilst Dean had the TV on, or trying to read books in bars much like this one, Sam had a natural ability for tuning it all out. When he first arrived at Stanford, he found the library almost unsettling in its quietness. It took him a while to finally adjust to the new study environment, but whenever he could, he'd seek out a local bar and read there instead. Or, when he had his dorm room to himself, he'd put on one of the half a dozen CDs he'd bought and turn it down low. He'd never admit it now, but all the CDs he'd owned at Stanford were the same albums as Dean's cassettes. If he ever wanted something else, he'd just turn the radio on. He didn't get very far in his collection, though, mostly because his brother had far too many tapes, but also due to his lack of availability and funds as a college student.  
  
The bar's pretty noisy; everyone's talking is a constant hum in his ears. The jukebox isn't ear-deafening but loud enough all the same. The clink of glasses, the occasional shout – all of it is just background noise to him. Sam watches Dean order their drinks, maybe even flirting a little with the female bartender. It's not like it used to be though, more like an afterthought. A few kind words, the hint of a smile. Even people in bars can pick up on it: something's just not quite right with them. Smiles that don't reach their eyes, flirting that falls a little flat, no real promises or intentions in what they're saying. He can see it in every line of Dean's body – knows that Dean can see it in his too. They're worse for wear; bone tired, no enthusiasm, broken in ways that just won't ever be fixed.  
  
Dean's voice is one of the only sounds that can bring him out of his thoughts when he's reading. That, and the sound of a gun being fired.  
  
“Here,” Dean says, placing his beer on the table, drink spilling over the side onto the edge of the paper. Sam shakes it out, disgruntled, but doesn't bother to gripe. He rubs tiredly at his eyes, unsure why Dean even suggested they do this tonight. They haven't been big fans of bars for years now, and he knows Dean's got a flask full of a whiskey just sitting in his jacket pocket waiting for him, as well as his own beer that he's nursing. Sam steals a glance at his brother, notes that he doesn't look any happier being in here than he did sitting behind the wheel of the impala. Dean's got his eyes firmly trained on the guys playing pool near the back of the bar. They're not too big, not all that dangerous looking, but there's a lot of them. Dean curls his tongue against his cheek, considering, then angles his body towards Sam instead.  
  
He gives a frustrated sigh, pulls the damp corner of the paper away from the rest.  
  
Dean bristles slightly. “What?”  
  
“What are we even doing here, man?” He grabs his beer and downs about a quarter of the glass. Dean gives a sharp shrug of his shoulders, looking annoyed himself now.  
  
“I don't know, Sammy. I thought maybe we could go to a bar, hang out like old times.”  
  
He snorts, shaking his head. “Oh yeah. This definitely feels like old times.” He picks up reading where he left off: woman in her late thirties, found dead–  
  
“You wanna leave then?” Dean's jaw is tight, eyes hard, but when Sam looks at him, his mood instantly dissipates. They're both stuck in this endless circle of bullshit: almost too tired to care about the world but caring all the same, at the end of their rope but they're still marching along, acutely aware and worried of each other's problems more than their own, but unable to do anything about them. It leaves them both pissed, constantly on the verge of snapping. It's nothing personal; just the strain of their lives finally taking its toll.  
  
“No,” he says. “We're here now – might as well have a few rounds.”  
  
Dean nods, and Sam watches as he tips his head back and downs the rest of his beer. Without even thinking, he pushes his own towards Dean's, and he picks that up that too. Resting the glass on his thigh, his leg jerks to the beat of the music. It's a seemingly unconscious movement and Sam's since long grown used to it. Dean would tap his leg even if it was dead quiet; he'd just be listening to the music in his head.  
  
When Dean finishes off Sam's beer a while later, Sam makes a move to get up.  
  
“I've got it,” he says when Dean also stands.  
  
“Make it a whiskey,” he replies. He sinks back into the booth, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly.  
  
The bar itself is busy, and Sam chooses to stand at the end where he can have some space to himself. The twenty dollar bill hangs loosely between his fingers, waiting patiently for one of the bartenders to notice him.  
  
When someone comes to stand beside him, a little too close, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He tilts his head, sees a guy who's about the same height as his brother, unmistakable look in his eye. The man smiles but it looks more like a sneer, just on the edge of threatening.  
  
“That guy you're with sure is pretty, but I've got a thing for a tall man.”  
  
Sam unconsciously leans away. He doesn't think it seems like the kind of bar people would openly make gay passes in, but the man is speaking quietly. He's standing close enough to make the intent clear to Sam, but to anyone else he could just be making conversation.  
  
Sam looks him in the eye, really doesn't like what he sees there. “I'm not interested.”  
  
The man laughs harshly, rubbing a thumb across his mouth as he gives Sam a cursory look over.  
  
“You playing hard to get?” Sam tenses, keeps his gaze on the man in the mirror across the bar. He feels sick, sudden lack of air in the bar. He wants to walk away, wants to be outside, wants to be a thousand miles away. He fights a childish urge to call out for his brother.  
  
The man leans closer, breath warm and vile on Sam's cheek. “You like it rough, son?”  
  
No air in his lungs. He tries to take a deep breath, can't, ends up making a choked sound instead. The man takes it the wrong way, thinks he's got Sam wound up for all the right reasons. He keeps trying to draw air into his lungs, again and again, but he can only manage shallow breaths. He can't think straight, heart hammering in his chest so hard it feels like it's trying to break through his ribs.  
  
He vaguely knows he could break this guy's arm in several places before he even lays a hand on him, but god help him, Sam can't get his body to cooperate. The man's got his body tilted slightly, still not standing too close by normal standards, but his jacket is hiding the view of the space between their bodies.  
  
Sam notes that he's having a panic attack. Can't bring himself to do anything but stand there and have it. The lack of air is making his head swim, knees weak.  _Dean,_ he manages to think through the cloud in his mind.  _Dean, Dean, Dean._  
  
The man suddenly has his hand against the front of Sam's jeans, rubbing hard enough to hurt. Sam's completely soft and the guy doesn't even seem to notice.  
  
He feels bile rise in his throat.  _No_ , he thinks. Sees a flash of Lucifer standing above him in the cage, and suddenly it's like he's right back there. Flesh burning, being violated day in and day out. The man keeps palming at Sam's dick, and he feels his eyes prick wet and hot.  
  
“Wanna take this outside?” The man breaths. Sam smells stale beer and sweat, his stomach turning.  
  
Then, the hand is gone. The man is gone too. Sam's practically hunched over the bar – is still panicking, heart in his mouth – but manages to look over in time to see Dean's fist connect with the guy's face.  
  
Dean draws his arm back, another solid punch. Another, and another. He gets in four hits before anyone's even out of their seats. Sam watches as Dean grabs the back of the man's head, turns and slams his face straight into the bar counter. He goes down, and Sam's not even sure if the man's still breathing.  
  
Dean lands a switch kick to the man's stomach, and he coughs up blood. The man's face is fucked up, Sam notes dully. His nose almost looks caved in.  
  
“You're lucky I didn't fucking kill you for touching my brother like that,” Dean snarls. When he turns to Sam, he's still got that wild, murderous look in his eyes, and Sam's never felt so fucking relieved in all his life.  
  
Dean grabs him by the elbow, half pulling and half pushing until they're outside. He doesn't stop until they reach the impala, sits him down on the hood.  
  
“You okay?” He asks uncertainly. He throws a look over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone came out after them. Then he looks back at Sam. “You need to put your head between your knees, Sammy.”  
  
Dean manages to get him off the hood, onto the gravel parking lot. Sam hits the floor hard, tries to hiss when it hurts his ass but doesn't have the air to do it. His brother gently pushes his head down until it's resting between his knees, hand brushing through his hair, down his neck, rubbing soothing circles into his back.  
  
“Breathe, Sam.”  
  
It takes a few moments, but he finally manages to calm down enough to get some air into his lungs. He's sticky with sweat, eyes wet and cheeks burning hot. He feels humiliated, abused. He doesn't want to have to see the look on Dean's face.  
  
“I'm not gonna let anyone ever hurt you like that again, you hear me?” Dean presses his forehead to Sam's temple, takes a deep breath. “I promise.”  
  
Sam nods his head jerkily, raising it a fraction. “We should go,” he manages, doesn't know what else to say. “Before the cops get here.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean agrees quietly. “You okay?”  
  
 _No_ , Sam thinks.  _Not even a little bit._  
  
“I'm fine,” and then Dean's helping him to his feet. He gives Sam a worried look, looks like he's about to say something else before pressing a hand to Sam's shoulder instead.  
  
Dean clears his throat. “Come on.”  
  
A hundred miles later, after listening to nothing but the low sounds of a soft rock station, Sam raises his head from the window. “Dean?”  
  
“Hmm?” Dean hums.  
  
“Thanks,” he says. “For...for everything.”  
  
Dean looks over. “You're my brother.” Eyes flick to the road, then back. “I'd do anything to protect you.”  
  
“I know, but thank you.”  
  
“You're welcome,” his brother replies gruffly.  
  
Sam settles down in his seat again. It's not until a few minutes later, when Dean starts singing quietly, that he's able to fall asleep.  
  
~end


End file.
